She took his hand to little resistance. The edges of the cut crystal had impressed thin pink all along the insides of his fingers and palm. “Tell me—what has happened?”
He nodded, and holding her hand led her to the sideboard.
“No, thank you,” Elia said to the row of decanted wine and liquors. “But I will sit.”
There was a tall hearth, set below the shield arms of his father’s bloodline and a pair of crossed broadswords. Two cushioned chairs nestled besidethe hearth, across from a small sofa of embroidered silk from far abroad. This front room was very formal. Everything about Morimaros was outrageously dignified.
They sat on the sofa. Their knees might’ve brushed together if either allowed it.
Morimaros lifted Elia’s hand and kissed it gently. The warmth knocked a dull, heavy stroke against her heart. Whatever was about to happen, she suspected they would never be able to surmount it. He shifted on the sofa, and their knees did touch then. “I want you to know how I admire you, Elia Lear. I wish I could go with you, when you return home.”
“How did—”
“I thought you might ask the Alsax eventually.” The king looked at her evenly. “And my guards do report when you leave the palace.”
“I must go home.” Elia squeezed his hand, taking careful note of the hardness at the pads of his fingers.Never forget this is a warrior king.“There is… as you know… a sickness on Innis Lear. I think it comes of the break my father caused between root and star. That is the seed of it, at least, planted the morning my mother died. She was his everything, Morimaros, so much so that without her he was untethered, wild in a way no king—no father—should be.” Elia lowered her eyes to their joined hands. “It has perhaps been a poison that I fell to as well—I have always feared, since then, to… love. To be loved.”
The king of Aremoria said nothing, but stroked his thumb gently along her knuckles. She could not tell which of them it was meant to comfort.
Taking a fortifying breath, Elia continued. “In his pain, Lear devoted himself with singular purpose to the stars. It was his only way to live, to exist, and he was determined to make it pure, without earth or wind, without the navel wells. That fanaticism has broken him, and his mind goes only to the sky without roots to bind him to the land. But I let go of wormwork, too. I let myself be what my father needed, and nothing else. Or what I thought he needed.”
“It is not your fault, Elia, what has happened to your father. His choices have been his own.”
“That may be, though I bear some of the weight of the results. I feel—now Ifeeltoo much, I haven’t let myself in so very long, and…” Closing her eyes against the surge of emotions, all too tangled to name, she forced herself to finish honestly. “Innis Lear is where I belong, Morimaros. I must go home and ask the island what it wants, what it needs. To unite the starsandthe roots. I know you don’t believe in the importance of such things, that you’ve managed to break free of it in Aremoria, but Innis Lear is aliveand wild. I would die to keep it so. And listening to—hearing—what the island needs is a thing I can do, that I have done, that neither of my sisters can, or will. They, and our father, have always decided who I could be, but not anymore. I will take a seat at our table. Do something to heal my island, and perhaps my family.”
The words settled in her gut, in her heart, and Elia suddenly breathed easier. As if she finally had listened to—and heard—herself.
Morimaros said, “I know. I understand, Elia, though it may seem like I couldn’t possibly. I…” He stopped, lips parted, as if he’d run out of words, or nerve.
Her black eyes widened.
“Elia, I wish… I would never leave your side if…”
“If you weren’t Aremoria.” She covered their joined hands with her other, but did not raise her eyes to his. She would protect him, if she could.
“Yes.”
Now she did glance up. “Aremoria cannot be at my side for this.”
“Yet.” Releasing her, Morimaros stood and returned to the sideboard. With his back to her, he said, “I must tell you something now that will change your opinion of me. And it’s taking all my courage to be so honest.”
“I can’t believe that.”
He turned. “That it takes all I have to convince myself to disappoint you?”
“That you can disappoint me at all,” was her steady reply, though doubt already dripped through her. He’d been so nervous when Elia arrived, though she’d forgotten, in the face of her own realizations.
The king stared at her as if she’d hooked him through the spine. Elia struggled to hold his deep blue gaze, to not cover her ears, or leave, while he regained himself. From the end of the sideboard Morimaros picked up a thin stack of letters, the top of which was unfolded. He brought them to her, and handed her that first one.
She held it carefully in both hands. At top were three lines of nonsense, written in Aremore. But below was a translation in a different hand, with dots and letters marking it, as if decoded:
The iron is mine. R and her husband trust me. I am at the center of everything, as you commanded. All occurs quickly on the island, too fast to wait for winter to set in. You must act now or not at all. There will be a final crown for Innis Lear long before Midwinter.
Panic shot Elia to her feet. The letter fluttered to the carpet. “What is this? When did…”
“It arrived today. I can arrange passage for you tonight, and you can be in Port Comlack just past dawn.”
Her mind whirled; everything tipped out of place. “Who is this from?”
